


black swan song

by lilabut



Series: the dirt in which our roots may grow [8]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Major Character Injury, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-05-31 15:28:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6475795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilabut/pseuds/lilabut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three different endings for the finale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one: my final symphony

**Author's Note:**

> After watching the finale, I considered not writing anything about it for this series. I felt like I had nothing more to say about that mess. But in the spirit of finishing things, I decided to give it a go after my initial anger simmered down to disappointment. 
> 
> Then I was faced with a bit of an issue: I started this series with the intention of writing canon compliant missing moments and extended scenes for every episode. Now, Carol's storyline this episode still makes me sick with anger and I don't want to write about it. I already wrote about Daryl and Carol's near-death experiences after being injured in the last part. And how is there a canon compliant way of writing about the ending of the episode, without ending it before Negan makes his 'choice'?
> 
> What I came up with is this: three different versions of the last few minutes of the episode, and then this series is over.

I've been racing the clock  
and I've run out of steam  
I am ready for my final symphony  
oh my body is weak  
but my soul is still strong

 

_Black Swan Song_ , Athlete

 

_eeny._

 

He should have died a long fucking time ago. How many times did his old man tell him he never should've been born in the first place? That he was nothing but a burden? Useless. Pathetic. Weak. Over and over, drilling the mantra into him until there seemed no alternative but to believe it. It was the easy, less painful way to go.

 

_meeny._

 

He should have died as a kid, pass out from the pain of the bastard's belt whipping along his back and never wake up.

 

_miny._

 

He should have been with his mama when she burned away to nothing, should have choked on a lung full of thick, ashen smoke and let the fire consume him, wipe away all proof he ever even existed.

 

_mo._

 

He should have evaporated into nothing at the CDC, painless and quick. What did Jenner say? _An end to grief and suffering_. Yeah. He damn well should have just stayed down there.

 

_catch._

 

That winter on the road, he should have frozen to death. Sink into a restless sleep by a dwindling fire and never wake up. They'd have buried him somewhere in a nameless forest, leave a makeshift cross on his grave made out of twigs. A lonely, sad sight – that would suit him just right.

 

_a tiger._

 

The sick creep comes to a halt just in front of him, dimming the shine of the moon and the glaring lights. It takes effort to lift his head and face him. The bat, wrapped in barbed wire, is mere inches away from him, but he forces his eyes away from it, looking up instead. He won't cower for him, or anyone.

 

_by._

 

Merle should've beat the hell out of him that night in Woodbury, switch off his lights and be done with it. Hell, wouldn't that have been the way to go? In the back of his mind, he can hear the old man coughing up bile, spitting it out and barking out a proud laughter at that.

 

_his toe._

 

He shook that kid Patrick's hand. Killed all them walkers in the cell block. Buried the dead in the blistering Georgia heat. Whatever illness claimed all their sorry lives, he should have died from it, too. Let the fever claim him with kaleidoscopic visions, until he bled out and drowned in his own blood.

 

_if._

 

That prison should have become his tomb. The only home he ever really had, or that's what Carol had called it. In hindsight, she might have been right about it. He can't remember ever fitting in anywhere quite as easily as he did behind those brick walls and wired fences.

 

When it went down in flames, he should stayed behind, been buried underneath the debris.

 

_he hollers._

 

He should have been torn apart in the basement of the funeral home, trapped underground with no escape and the guilt of leaving behind Beth to fend for herself as the flesh was torn from his very bones.

 

_let him go._

 

Hell, they all should have died on the road, dehydrated and drained of hope.

 

_my mother._

 

The storm should have wiped them out. Him first, pacing by the barn's door like an idiot. Rain should have washed away his blood as the forest and the tempest ate him alive.

 

_told me._

 

Morgan never should have shown, and it should have been his decision to draw the walkers away from the car and save Aaron. To die far away from the pretentious white houses and neat lawns of Alexandria. To die as himself, not as some posh and proper version of a man he never could be.

 

_to pick._

 

Perhaps he should have died in the burned forest, turned into dust and bones beneath a canopy of bare trees and the blue sky.

 

_the very._

 

The asshole who stabbed him in the back, cut his damn wing, he should not have missed his heart. Pierce right through it instead and end his miserable life right there on a lonely stretch of asphalt at the back of a fuel truck.

 

_best._

 

Dwight was right behind him, invisible and yet tormenting him all the same. He had a clear shot, and the bullet should have split his brain instead of his fucking shoulder.

 

_one._

 

Maybe Beth was right when she talked about everything she wished for. And maybe he was right when he told her that it's the way it should be.

 

_and you._

 

He should have left home, left Merle. A long, long time ago. He should have _lived_ , God damn it.

 

_are._

 

The way it should have been. Whatever the fuck that even means. In a car crash? Cancer? Old and gray in his armchair with a bottle of ice cold beer in his hand?

 

_it._

 

It's bullshit that _this_ is going to be it. Bleeding out, numb and on his knees in the dirt.

 

_Anybody moves, anybody says anything, cut the boy's other eye out and feed it to his father. And then we'll start._

 

It's deafeningly quiet. Not that he expected anyone to jump forward in his defense. Not like Glenn did for Maggie. Not like Rick would for Carl. Not like he would for...

 

_You can breathe._

 

The bastard smiles down at him, and he holds his gaze. He won't give in, and he sure as hell won't beg.

 

_You can blink._

 

She's not here. She's safe. She doesn't have to see this.

 

_You can cry._

 

I don't want you to die... Suddenly, he feels guilty for not speaking up. For being too weak to lunge at the guy and at least put up a fight.

 

_Hell, you're all going to be doing that._

 

The first hit hurts like a bitch. Maybe it's the impact of the bat or the sharp cut of the wire slicing through his skull. Everything blurs, the ground one slope of gray and brown and dust and dirt. He can't breathe anymore, and it's a small mercy the universe grants him. With only a flicker of strength left, he raises up, shoulders straight.

 

_Look at that. Taking it like a champ._

 

Someone screams. Faintly and far away. There is crunch that vibrates through his body. Everything is black for all of a second, and in the darkness, Carol is alive and save and happy. It's all that matters in the end.

 

 

 

He never feels the third blow. The way it cracks his skull open. He is dead by the fourth, that smashes his brain. He never hears the other screams. He never sees the tears.

 

He never knows just how much he _matters_.


	2. two: many battles I have won

the forest always kept us warm  
but it doesn't feel like home anymore

though many battles I have won  
I lost too many friends I could count on

 

_Black Swan Song_ , Athlete

 

The searing pain stopped hours ago. The van smells of blood and sweat, and Daryl's hands are slick with both. Under the blanket, he shivers.

 

Pain has turned to numbness, his limbs weightless and heavy as lead all at the same time. When they drag him out, pulling at his arm so deftly it feels like they might as well just tear it from the shattered joint, he can not even stand on his own feet. They drag him, feet sliding across the dirty ground, dropping him onto his knees.

 

Even that drains all the energy from him, and he sinks back on his haunches, swallowing. Only now does he gather enough strength to actually take in the line up, and his heart sinks into the pit of his stomach.

 

He's never had a family worth of the name in his life, and only recently has he begun to understand what that word can mean, can encompass. These people, lined up on their knees, beaten, bruised and terrified, they are his family.

 

If he could, he'd fight for them, kill all the bastards that have taken them with his bare hands if he has to. But he can't even keep himself upright, can't lift his arm high enough to do any harm to anyone but himself.

 

Hurriedly, with his heart pumping what is left of his blood furiously through his veins, he scans their faces – pale and quivering.

 

Carol's not here. She's safe. She's home.

 

No matter what happens here tonight, she will not have to suffer through it. It is a relief so vast he can not contain it, and he feels some of the tension leave his body. But along with that, his surroundings begin to blur more and more. Everything is a hazy swirl of colors and light, the cold air creeping up his bare arms and hitting the wetness of his blood where it tints his skin red.

 

The man, Negan, talks and talks, yet Daryl barely hears a word of it. Every now and then, he catches glimpses, strangled words that echo in his ears as if they've been spoken from a great distance.

 

One of them is going to die here tonight. Hell, they all might. A massacre that drowns this clearing in blood, and come morning, there'd be little left of them but bones. Nothing to remember any of them by.

 

The thought of Carol haunts him, how lost she'd be. This is his family as much as hers. He should fight to keep them safe, and instead, he's hunched over on his knees, barely able to hold up his head. How many times has he lost consciousness in that dark van? How often has he woken in pain to someone pleading with his name on their lips? To phantom hands ghosting over torn skin?

 

There's not a damn thing he can do to keep them safe, to keep them alive. For her. The thought of her, all alone, eats away at what little dignity he still has.

 

Close by, Glenn yells, desperately lunging forward into his field of vision. There's shuffling, Dwight aiming his crossbow at Glenn's back. No way. Not again. But then he can't see them anymore, and all Daryl hears for a while is his pulse drumming in his ears, slower and slower as time passes.

 

He never should have gone looking for Dwight, he thinks when the whistling starts, more chilling that the cold night air could ever be. Just like he never should have allowed Denise to go at all. It forms the last on an infinite list of regret, sucking the life from him at a rate much more rapid than the blood seeping from his wound.

 

_Eeny... Meeny... Miney..._ The rhyme echoes from far away, and it's easy to imagine the hollow laughter of dead children, blood dripping from the sky like rain. _Mo. Catch._ Negan comes to a halt in front of him, tall and towering, pointing the bat at his face.

 

_A tiger._ Daryl does not give him the small victory of cowering down in fear, looks straight into the bastard's eyes instead. He's smiling, a twisted grin that is completed by empty eyes. _By his toe._

 

His heart picks up speed under much protest, ready to slow down and send him into a slumber he knows he'll never wake up from. It's almost a promising thought, but there is no room to dwell on it. Not when his heart understands what is happening. That his time, or that of someone he cares about, is nearly up. The big clock in the sky ticks and tocks as the rhyme goes on, familiar and morbid.

 

It's not death that he fears. He's not afraid of pain anymore, either. One whole new concept, one he hasn't felt until the world went to shit, swells inside of him, making this all the more unbearable. Loss. That's what terrifies him.

 

He knows when it's about to happen, even though he can barely see anything anymore. At first, he does not look, afraid to see whose time is up. There is a moment of absolute quiet, followed by a sickening crunch that nearly has him cough up the contents of his stomach. Then, all hell breaks loose.

 

The screams tear through him, piercingly sharp likes knives. He looks up then, to blood and brain and shattered bones.

 

Until his own last breath leaves his body, he'll never be able to erase the sight from his mind. It burns itself into his memory with each hit of the bat, with each new splatter of blood that soaks into the ground, with each scream that pleads for a long lost cause.

 

Carol is alive. She will be alright. He is still alive, for however long that may be. The mantra repeats itself in his head over and over. Maybe he'll get a chance to say all the words he was too afraid to say before. A chance to do it all right. To do right by her. Everything that terrified him until this very moment, lost and beaten in the midst of the forest.

 

As the screams fade into silence and the night takes over, he realizes that there really is nothing left to be afraid of when this is how their lives are going to be from now on. This... This is the only thing to fear.

 

Not comfort. Not kindness. And sure as hell not love.

 

To lose it all. That's what scares the shit out of him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I did not want to decide who dies. That shouldn't have to be my decision :(


	3. three: they carried me home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Negan chooses Daryl. Carol is there to witness it.

and all my friends and family carried me  
they carried me home  
carried me home

 

 _Black Swan Song_ , Athlete

 

They push the woman down on her knees next to the man with the beard, the leader. Clear blue eyes are hazy with resignation, yet whatever trace of fear might be hidden in the crystal clear depths is well masked and impossible to uncover. A facade that requires practice and meticulous dedication.

 

Her hand is splayed against the other woman's back, right next to her, sick and pale and barely able to hold herself upright. The woman's touch grounds her, offers comfort where there is no more hope.

 

The woman takes it all in, every single man in the clearing, the cars from top to bottom, the lights and the shadows they cast. With dedication, she assesses. Quietly, and with nothing but miniscule flickers of her gaze.

 

It isn't until the doors of the van are pulled open that her ivory facade begins to crack. _Daryl_ , she whispers fearfully as they drag the man out into the blinding light, blood and sweat glistening on his pale skin.

 

Two pairs of blue eyes meet across the distance, the very same terror haunting them.

 

* * *

 

 

_Hell, you're all going to be doing that._

 

Under the impact of the first hit, the man nearly crumples to the ground.

 

The woman sucks in a breath, leaping forward on her knees, bare palms landing harshly on the cold ground. An arm wraps tightly around her, their leader holding her back. She struggles in his grasp, barely able to breathe, eyes widened. _Carol, no._

 

Slowly, the man rises back up, blood trailing down his face like tears. Blue eyes have lost their focus, looking but not seeing, searching for something he can not find.

 

_Taking it like a champ._

 

Like an animal in a snare, she fights, twisting her limbs. Fingernails dig into the ground, violently.

 

The second blow proves too much, and the man sinks to the ground. Quietly, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders falls away. The woman's scream tears through the night like a knife through flesh, but still their leader holds on to her, surely leaving bruises as reminders on her pale skin.

 

Other cries mingle with her own, an orchestra of terror. More and more blood soaks into the ground, the man no longer recognizable.

 

When the last hit of the bat and the last scream fade into silence, the world stops spinning. Nobody breathes. The air is still, the clouds in the sky frozen. Even the leafs in the trees seem to have ceased dancing in the cold wind.

 

 _I'll kill you._ It's the leader who breaks the silence, speaking in a low voice, eyes piercing with rage and grief. _Not today, not tomorrow, but I will kill you._ He is still holding the woman's quivering body. She no longer fights his grasp, sagging against him. As he speaks, he is not holding her back anymore. He is holding her upright. Holding her together.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time she fights, the arms around her drop willingly.

 

She crawls across the small distance, sinking down on her knees next to the man's body. _No_ , she whispers under her breath, tears dwelling in her eyes. Slender, pale fingers reach out, tracing along what little is left of the man's face. A tender movement, cradling the ruins of his head in the palms of her hands.

 

It is a precious moment, fragile and private. Sweet, in a way, if not for the blood that now coats her hands. Nobody dares to move too close, watching in terror and awe as the woman leans down.

 

Tears spill from empty eyes, travel down cheeks that are drained of blood, slipping past quivering lips before dripping down, kissing the crimson ground. The woman presses her lips against the man's jaw, a hint of it left, framing the carnage. _Daryl_. His name is a plead as much as a prayer, unheard by every god.

 

Red tints her lips when she pulls back, just barely. Then, ever so slowly, she sinks to the ground by his side, her face only inches away from his.

 

Glassy blue eyes face the night sky. With a deep breath, her hand finds his, uncurled and facing the glimmering stars.

 

Fingers fall into place there like a lock in a key.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Carol, we need to go._ The man kneels down by her side, arms that have held her back before now limp and useless. He looks terrified of her, of the quiet that's taken hold.

 

The woman nods slowly, her head turning to face the man she must have loved. A haunting smile curls her lips, so faint that it is nearly missed in the moonlight.

 

 _We're not leaving him,_ a woman speaks through tears, moving closer with slow steps and great care. Then a man, horrified. _Let us take him home._

 

The woman nods again, just as slowly. Her free hand lifts from the ground, blood dripping from her fingers as she trails them up the man's neck. _Thank you_ , she mouths. It is more private than any confessions of love or loyalty, and everyone sinks their heads to the ground, nearly in shame, tears soaking into the earth.

 

Then, with all the grace in the world, the woman sits up. Blood has plastered her hair to her skull, drenched the back of her coat. It glistens on the side of her face, but she makes no move to wipe it away. Instead, she reaches for the blanket long forgotten. Gently, she dusts the earth off the fabric.

 

One last echo of a smile spreads across her face as she looks down on him, gone forever.

 

She cradles his head in the blanket, white turning deep red almost instantly. Still, he is hidden from the world.

 

_Take him home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am truly very sorry about this. To be completely honest, this was written purely out of spite and is the embodiment of why I should not write when I'm angry. But I needed to channel my anger into something, and this seemed the easiest way.


End file.
